Baucum didn't answer.
“No communication with the school board during that time? With the parents of the kids who would be attending the school?”
“Look,” Baucum said, clearly tired of feeling railroaded. “It's not responsible conduct to go around saying the sky is falling if you don't have clear evidence that the sky could be, in fact, falling. Obviously, we were looking into the matter. We were performing due diligence. We felt we had reason to look into the matter further, but not reason to bring—”
“Some people have asked if there could, possibly, be a conflict of interests here.”
Baucum drew his head back. “What? No. Why?”
“Well, your company was part of the design team on the building. And here you are, on the committee investigating whether the design of this building is adequate to the environment it's being placed in.”
“It wasn't just this building. We were looking at the entirety of the area, whether we need to change actual building codes and specifications to match this—this new reality.”
“And yet you mentioned NorthStar Elementary by name.”
“Well, yes. Because that's the one I was most familiar with, since it was recent and I had been directly involved in it. But we weren't—”
“You mentioned NorthStar Elementary by name,” Peter said again.
Baucum stopped. He ran a hand over his mouth. “It takes time to conduct a thorough investigation like this. I thought...we needed more time to...”
Peter let him sit in silence for a moment. Then he laid a picture of Meredith on the table. She held her hand up in a weak wave from her hospital bed, her leg raised in a plaster cast. It was the picture shown on her GoFundMe page.
“Meredith Logan has time. She's facing a future full of nothing but time. A future when she's not able to do the one thing she loves most—dancing.”
Music kicked in, and I hit the pause button. They were about to show little Meredith dancing before the accident, and I wasn’t sure I could handle that.
I checked the clock again and decided I would just go to work early.
My early morning caught up with me around 11:00 am. Unfortunately, I still had dogs to finish and then a biting Scotty came in and put me in a foul mood. By the time I got off work at 4:00 pm, I was in an even fouler mood and decided I needed some TLC.
I texted Tony before I left Flo's. “Warning: grumpy wife headed your way.”
“There,” I said to Stump as I lowered her onto the seat. “He can't say he hasn't been warned.”
My phone began playing the siren as soon as I walked through Tony's door.
Tony looked at me, brow raised, and then at my pants pocket. “Where's the fire?” He waggled his brows.
I laughed. “That's my mom's ring tone. I'll check it later.” I had to be emotionally prepared to talk to my mother, and right now I did not have the reserves to pull it off.
He let me put my lunch box on the counter and toe off my shoes by the sofa, then he gathered me in his arms.
He'd kissed me once when his own phone buzzed.
He groaned, pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen, then gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
I shrugged. “No problem. I will put the time to good use by going into a near-vegetative state on your sofa.”
He kissed me and headed back to his office.
I stretched out on the sofa, but my mind was in that frenzied, exhausted state where it refuses to stop running. I picked up my phone and found the interview with Baucum again.
Trisha had said he was unbelievably cold, but he hadn't seemed cold to me. He'd seemed defensive and rude, but by the end of the interview, he'd seemed beaten.
I rose and paced, waiting for Tony to finish. To be honest, I'd expected him to drop everything and tend to me once he knew I was having a bad day.
It was childish to assume he would be able to do that, though. Tony had built a successful building services business through hard work and long hours, and I loved that about him. If it meant I had to be a big girl and let him put it before me once in a while, that seemed a small price to pay.
Or it would have if I hadn't been in such a mood. As things stood at the moment, I had to lecture myself not to be a big baby, but even then it was a struggle not to feel sorry for myself.
I sighed and ordered myself to really put the time to good use. I thought about Peter and the string of interviews I'd watched. What did they have in common?
I stood and walked slowly through Tony's living room, dining room, and kitchen, then back again. The truth was, there didn't seem to be a shortage of people who could have had it in for him. We needed to get a list of Baucum Engineering employees who had been laid off. Maybe I could cross-reference those names with anyone who had recently filed for bankruptcy or for divorce. How did one go about cross-referencing things, I wondered.
I tripped over something and stumbled. I looked down. My tennis shoes.
I cringed and picked them up, carrying them to the bedroom to tuck into the closet. I didn't have much at Tony's house, so the least I could do was keep my stuff picked up.
I went back to the living room and noticed my lunch box on the counter, ready to be cleaned out. My keys on the hallway table, not on the key rack by the back door where Tony kept his. My magazine on his coffee table.
I looked around. It was as if my stuff were the artfully placed items meant to make a model home look “lived in.”
I picked up my magazine and carried it to the rack beside the sofa. I was sliding it in beside Tony's books and magazines, when the spine of a book caught my eye.
Alcoholic.
I tugged the book out from where it was wedged between two other paperbacks and a stack of folded newspaper.
Living With An Alcoholic.
I stared at the title.
Surviving and Thriving with a Loved One Who Drinks read the subtitle.
I stared at the book for a long time. Eventually, I became aware of a buzzing in my ears.
This was good, I told myself. Tony wanted to know how to help. I needed help. We all needed to be on the same page.
This was good.
So why did I suddenly burn with shame?
I stood and paced a bit. There was no legitimate reason that I should feel so suddenly exposed. I knew I was an alcoholic. Tony knew I was an alcoholic. It was all out there. What's more, I knew—Jeez-O-Peet , how could I not know?—that addiction of any kind made life complicated. For everyone.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, then with a quick shove, put the book back where I'd found it.
I stood and paced some more.
I told myself to calm down. After all, it was silly to feel resentment or shame or even panic—all emotions that had been running through me, one after another.
Surviving a loved one who drinks.
I felt like a live grenade. Like a walking open-sore highly infectious disease.
I felt like an EF-5 tornado. Like the earthquake that had taken Meredith Logan’s ability to dance.
I picked the book up again, thumbed it open, then slapped it closed.
No. This wasn't going to help me, not right now. Tony was facing truth. He was seeking knowledge on how to live with that truth. I, as well as anyone, should be able to appreciate the value of that.
Facts were facts. I needed to focus on them and get my focus off my feelings. My feelings were obviously leading me to a bottomless swirly that could only result in something disastrous.
I took a deep breath. I started to list facts.
I was an alcoholic.
I was in recovery.
I had not had a drink in 421 days.
I was experiencing an uncomfortable feeling, but I was familiar with this feeling. This feeling said I wanted something, desperately needed something, in fact. It said that something fundamental was hanging out there, needful and unsatisfied, awkward and uncomfortable and screaming for something to be done. There was a hole that had to be fille
d.
It was just feeling. I had gotten through it before.
This feeling wasn't an indication that I did, in fact, have to fill the hole. I could, instead, just sit with that hole for a moment. Feel the edges. Gauge the depth.
Tony had to figure out how to survive me.
I made myself re-read the entire subtitle.
Surviving and Thriving with a Loved One Who Drinks.
I made myself focus on the good words. Thrive. Loved One. With.
I tucked the book back in the rack and stood, taking more deep breaths.
I had asked Tony if he could really appreciate what he was getting into, staying married to me. He'd said he did. He made the choice. He was a grownup, he knew what he was doing, we were both adults and were going through this with eyes wide open.
Okay. So if Tony could do this, so could I.
I walked into the hallway and looked at the closed office door. It was quiet in there.
I made the circuit of the living room, dining room, kitchen, hallway again.
We were grownups. We did what grownups do.
Grownups call their parents back, I remembered.
That was one thing I could do that would be simple enough. Mom was so excited now about her wedding, phone calls with her were mostly one sided and simple. I usually just kept up a revolving commentary of the words, “Wow,” “Cool,” and “That sounds great,” until she got ready to hang up. It cost me nothing and seemed to make her happy.
I called her.
“Salem!” she said when she answered. “I'm glad you called me back. I need to talk about wedding plans.”
For the next few minutes, I “wowed” and “cooled” my way through the call, but I had to make myself focus when her tone shifted just slightly.
“Because this is Gerry's fourth wedding, we can't have it at a church, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. No mention that their tally of previous marriages was equal. Or was Mom's number higher? I couldn't remember. There had been a number of false starts for a couple of the fiancés (What was the plural of fiancé? my frazzled brain wondered. Fianci?) and I had a hard time remembering which ones made it all the way to signing on the dotted line. At least four, though.
She went on about the backyard wedding they were planning at Gerry's parents' house. They were incorporating a fall theme, of course, using orange and teal for colors (which sounded hideous, but I held my tongue on that) and pumpkins, mums. The cake was a big horn of plenty.
“Neely describes it as rustic, but not country.”
I had been in Neely Bates’s backyard, and her house. She could pull off a classy version of “rustic” if anyone could.
“And we've decided not to have any attendants,” she said, a little rushed. In fact, it was almost with the air of someone ripping off a Band-Aid.
Jeez-O-Peet . I hadn't even considered that she might have asked me to be her bridesmaid or anything. Now I wouldn't have to make up an excuse. Whew.
“But I do get to be your flower girl, right?” I had been her flower girl three times. The last time I'd been fifteen, sulky and resentful in what I considered a baby dress, and already assuming this was just another man I would have to fight off.
Awkward silence.
“Just kidding,” I said. “No worries from me, I'll be happy to take my place on the bride's side.” Then, to change the subject, I said, “Okay, I know you and Neely have this well in hand, but I have to ask—aren't you concerned about rain? Even if it doesn't rain, it will surely be chilly.”
“Neely has it all figured out. They have fifteen of those outdoor patio heaters, plus they're renting a big tent that will be heated. We'll have the ceremony out by the fountain if it doesn't rain and inside the tent if it does. They're providing throws and heated gloves for the guests, just in case. And there will be plenty of alcohol flowing, of course. It's going to be fun!”
Actually, it did sound fun, in a very loud, obnoxious kind of way. For some reason the “fun with alcohol” attitude when she knew I was in recovery, coupled with the lack of a role for me in the event, had become extremely annoying to me.
Definitely time to take the high road. “I know I'm not in the wedding, but I'd love some suggestions on what to wear,” I said.
“I'll email you some ideas,” she said. “Or you could come up here and we could shop together. Girls weekend!”
She actually squealed. My mom. Squealing. I developed an instant migraine. And by migraine, I mean an even crummier attitude.
“Sure,” I said. “If I can get the time. But send me some suggestions, just in case.” Because nope.
I hung up and promised myself that if Viv ended up marrying Nigel, she was going to let me be her bridesmaid. If I had to threaten her with her own gun, I would.
I curled up on the sofa and stared into nothingness. Stump, ever sensing my moods, crawled into my lap and rooted at my hand until I petted her. This morphed into a full-out belly rub.
Tony came in and looked at the two of us on the sofa.
“She looks ecstatic and you look miserable.”
I told you I was grumpy, I thought. Instead of complaining, though, I raised my head. “Do I?”
He sat beside me. “The phone call go badly?”
I shrugged. “Not really. She's all excited. She's going to send me some suggestions for what to wear.”
“Excellent. We'll go shopping.”
“You want to go shopping with me?” I shifted until I could lay my head on his shoulder.
“Maybe just once.” He kissed the top of my head. “Why do you look sad?”
“I'm not sad.” Was I? I did a gut check. I wasn't happy, that was for sure. The thing about no attendants was bugging me, but I didn't want it to. I didn't want to be her bridesmaid.
I want her to want me to be a bridesmaid, so I can tell her no.
I groaned and rubbed my face. Did I want to admit that to Tony? No. No, I did not. I didn't even want to admit it to myself.
“I'm being silly,” I finally said. “I forgave my mother weeks ago, but the silly, childish part of me wants to hold a grudge. That's all.”
I tried to remember what Les had told me. Forgiveness is an over and over kind of thing.
Then a new thought occurred to me. Weeks back, when Mom and I had a huge argument, I had told her that she should warn her friend Susan not to talk to me at the wedding. Susan, who had been Mom's drinking buddy throughout my unstable childhood. Susan, whose teenage son had molested me when I was seven years old.
She couldn't have both me and Susan as attendants—I’d pretty much guaranteed to wreck the whole thing if she did. So, rather than tell Susan that she'd chosen me as a bridesmaid over her, she'd chosen to have no attendants at all.
I didn't know why this caught me off guard. Mom had chosen Susan over me a million times. She'd chosen Susan over me, men over me, any good time that presented itself over me. This one time when she could have chosen me over Susan, she elected to choose no one at all.
It all added up much better than the “no attendants just because” line had. She was making a big deal about this wedding. She had never once failed to expect everyone around her to jump on whatever drama train she was conducting. It didn't make sense that she wouldn't want attendants. Unless she couldn't bring herself to tell Susan no.
I stood so suddenly I startled Tony and Stump grumbled.
“What?”
I shook my head, suddenly antsy. “Nothing. I'm just...” I looked around, searching for the term. Antsy was the only way to describe it. “I'm just antsy.”
“Talking with your mom?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Wedding plans. Mom.” I rubbed hands palms together in fast, frantic circles. “Bringing up stuff I don't really want to think about.”
“Let's talk about it.”
I shook my head. “No. Not now.” I walked to the edge of the room and back.
“Yes. Come on, Salem.” He patted the sofa beside him. “Sit down. L
et's talk it out.”
I felt a spurt of impatience with him. I had warned him I was grumpy, and half an hour ago I would have been glad to have his attention. He'd gone off to work instead. Now it was too late.
I paced in front of the coffee table. “No. Not now.”
He took a breath and picked up my phone, I think just to have something for his hands to do. He scooted forward on the sofa, his elbows on his knees. “Salem, you're getting yourself worked up. Calm down.”
I stopped and stared at him. “Has anyone in the history of the world ever calmed down because someone told them to calm down?”
I had spoken more sharply than I meant to. I began to pace again, the urge to move too strong to resist. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I just...I feel anxious and I think I need to get out for a while.”
“I think you need to sit down and just talk it out. I think that will help.”
“I can't.”
“Of course you can. Don't be afraid of me, Salem. You can trust—”
“I'm not afraid of you!” I snapped. I gritted my teeth. “I just feel anxious and I feel like I need to get out. Get some air.”
He stood and tried to gather me in his arms. “Come here.”
I just couldn't do it. I pulled away. “I'm sorry, but I need some space.”
“Look.” He frowned and dipped his head to meet my eyes. “I don't think you should go.”
“I'm just going back to my place. I'm sorry, but I can't think.”
“Salem, I don't think you should go.”
“I have to get out of here!” I shouted. I didn't mean to shout. But for some reason I felt panicked, trapped, desperate. “I'm just going back to my place for a breather.”
The look on his face told me all I needed to know.
He thought I was going to drink.
“Don't look at me like that,” I said through clenched teeth. I pointed at him. “You do not look at me like that.”
He held his hands out in the universal symbol for 'simmer down.' “I think you should stay here while you're upset. I can stay in my office or something. I don't mean to crowd you. But I think you should stay here.”
“And I think you should trust me! But you don't, do you?”
A fleeting look crossed his face. A kind of seriously?! look that he managed to smother almost immediately.
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